


My Best Friend's Friend's Wedding

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ben and Bev's Wedding, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miss Communication is back and she's causing even more problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Richie looks at Eddie with this little grin. “Have you ever done something romantic? Something spontaneous? Impulsive? Passionate? Like, ever? In your life?”Eddie feels an unpleasant twinge in his ribs. It’s not a great sign when your roomie/best friend/receptacle for an increasingly discomforting gay awakening thinks you’re the antithesis of love.It’s an even worse sign when you can’t think of any evidence to the contrary.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie frowns at the letter as soon as it arrives in their letterbox.

“I don’t like it,” he tells Richie over dinner. “Getting married so soon after a divorce. It’s risky.” Eddie should know. He’s spent a long time analysing the risks and rewards of making a move on Richie before his divorce is finalised.

“Somebody stop him.” Richie says, reaching over the table for the invite and chucking it at his head. “He’s risk analysing.”

“Fuck off.” Eddie says, catching the invite and laying it under his hand, flat on the table so Richie can’t destroy it before Eddie can put it in his secret scrapbooking stash. “They’re my friends. I don’t want them to make bad decisions.”

“Who’s making the bad decision?” Richie asks. “The guy marrying a badass natural redhead with her own fashion line? Or the girl marrying a bodybuilder with the soul of a newborn bunny and his own architectural firm?”

“I didn’t say they shouldn’t be together, asshole. Just that they should take things a little slower than a shotgun wedding! Especially with Bev’s history!”

Richie looks at Eddie with this little grin. “Have you _ever_ done something romantic? Something spontaneous? Impulsive? Passionate? Like, ever? In your life?”

Eddie feels an unpleasant twinge in his ribs. It’s not a great sign when your roomie/best friend/receptacle for an increasingly discomforting gay awakening thinks you’re the antithesis of love.

It’s an even worse sign when you can’t think of any evidence to the contrary.

He scowls. “It’s a marriage. Not a fucking hot-air balloon ride.”

Richie grins. “Are you gonna tell them they’re making a horrible mistake when they come to dinner next week?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says dryly. “I’m sure they’ll take advice from the 40 year-old divorcé.”

“I know The Rock’s tailor,” Richie says, making a vague triangle gesture in the direction of Ben’s chest. “You know, in case you need your suit jacket fitted to his proportions.” He grabs a pistachio from the coffee table and chucks it into his mouth.

Eddie, sitting in the opposite armchair, wishes he wasn’t attracted to Richie eating his food like a performing seal.

“Ha ha, Richie,” Ben says, going a rosy pink and burrowing slightly into the couch. He always adopts the manner of a tolerant substitute teacher when dealing with Richie.

“I’m calling your bluff.” says Bev, sitting next to him. “Give me The Rock’s tailor’s number.”

“Red,” Richie whines. “You’re embarrassing me in front of Ben.”

“You do that on your own.” Eddie interrupts darkly.

“You’re both so mean! While I’m mourning the upcoming death of the most eligible bachelor in the greater United States.”

“He’s not a bachelor just cause we’re not married yet,” Bev says. “That’s like saying _you’re_ available.”

Richie stares at her for a moment, then darts his eyes away, grabbing a handful of pistachios from the table.

“What?” Eddie says, suddenly panicked. “Are you seeing someone?”

“No,” says Bev. “He hasn’t dated anyone in a long time, have you Richie?”

Eddie frowns, confused. This seems a little mean, even for the level of snark they usually exchange.

“Well,” he says lamely. “Weddings are a good place to meet people, right?”

Richie frowns at the pistachios in his hand.

“Ooh boy.” says Bev. “We better get going. Richie, I promise to throw you the bouquet.”

Richie does the washing, while Eddie dries up, giving him a clear vantage to watch Richie’s back and shoulders move.

“…Is there a reason you’re not dating?” Eddie asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I’ve heard it requires an interested party.” Richie responds.

“Fuck off. I saw ‘Richie Tozier Reads Thirst Tweets’. I know how many weird millennials want you to sit on them.”

Richie smiles, head dipping. “Ooh, and you make it sound so tempting.”

“You know,” Eddie says, when Richie doesn’t offer anything else. “When normal people don’t want to talk about something, they just say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine.” _Tell Bev and not me. Fucking whatever._

Richie smiles at him. That slightly-sheepish, mostly-bemused smile he gets when Eddie is annoyed. “Eds. C’mere.”

Eddie feels his heart rate pick up. He puts his tea towel down and goes over. He’s not sure if Richie just wants a hug or-

Richie attacks him with a slew of bubbles.

“ _Fuck_ you,” says Eddie, slinging dishwashing water off his chin and hair and onto Richie’s. “Santa-Claus-looking motherfucker.”

Richie cackles.

They continue like that for a couple minutes, until it catches up with them, how painfully adolescent this all is. Eddie steps back, looking away from Richie’ grey tee, now clinging to him.

“You need a shower.” says Richie.

“Whose fault is that, huh?”

Richie grins. “Go. I’ll leave the rest to drain.”

Eddie tries to let his thoughts go with the water. The fact that Richie is, apparently, not dating, is certainly throwing a wrench in his _date me_ plans.

The fact that he’s keeping something from Eddie is not a great sign either.

But if Richie won’t talk to him, he doesn’t know what he can do but wait.

And fill every moment with paranoid questioning.

It’s a week later, when he gets some kind of answer.

He’s coming home from work, tired and annoyed. He heads to the kitchen, about to make dinner, until he realises he can hear Richie’s voice from his bedroom.

He edges a little closer.

“I know it’s going to be a romantic atmosphere. Yeah, I _know_ he’s gonna be wearing a suit. As touching as your concern is, I think I’m gonna be able to make it through the night.”

And then Richie’s door creaks, and Eddie backs up in a frantic attempt to find a non-suspicious place to position himself.

“Yeah, I know you would. I-“ Richie freezes as he opens the door and sees Eddie. “Bev, I’ll uh, have to call you back.”

“Bev?” Eddie asks dumbly.

“Yeah.” Richie ruffles a hand through his hair, which rationally, is like turning on a dandruff sprinkler, and should not be appealing in any way, but somehow is. “She just wants to make sure I don’t run off with Ben into the sunset. Y’know, because obviously I _could_ seduce him, if I wanted to, but. I’m too good a friend.”

“…Right.” says Eddie, not sounding nearly incredulous enough. “I’m uh. Gonna make dinner.”

Eddie takes about half an hour to slice one capsicum, getting distracted by his thoughts every 3 seconds. Richie was joking, _obviously_ , but. Richie jokes about a lot of true things.

Eddie still remembers that whenever Ben would start discussing New Kids on the Block, Richie would pipe up in a high-pitched impersonation of a teenage girl. “Jonathan’s my favourite because he’s the _cutest!_ ”

A pretty good way to deflect, if you’re in a bigoted fucking high school. Making something so obvious people assume it can’t be real.

The he’d flutter his eyelashes and say, “Which one is your favourite, Benny?”

_God, he did love to tease Ben._

_Loves to now, won’t shut up about his abs and his hair and his eyes and his “newborn puppy” soul._

_And maybe any other bride-to-be would be jealous, but not Bev. Bev would be worried about him. Bev would check in. Bev would call up and ask,_ Hey, do you think you’re gonna be able to handle this?

Eddie cleaves a capsicum in half, narrowly avoiding chopping his thumbnail off in the process.


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie is trying his hand at Positive Thinking.

He hates it, mostly, but it’s useful for keeping in mind that _Hey, just because Richie isn’t in love with you now, doesn’t mean he’ll never be! Give it 5 years and maybe he’ll have moved on from Ben!_

Eddie doesn’t think this is how his therapist intended it to be used.

But he doesn’t have a ton of other options, right now. He doesn’t want a rebound, doesn’t want to fuck a stranger when he’s in love with someone else.

He’s just trying to be a friend right now, and bury everything else, To Be Examined at a Later Date.

Richie never tries to talk to him about Ben, and while Eddie is mostly relieved, he’s also a little offended. Like. Did he tell Bev? Or did she work it out? Did he tell _Bev_ he was in love with her fiancé before he told Eddie? In which case, _What the fuck, Richie?_ Even for him, that’s socially maladjusted.

This is what runs through his head, as they wait for Ben and Bev to appear. They’re walking down the aisle together. _No more waiting for each other,_ said Bev.

More waiting for everyone else, apparently.

Eddie goes on his phone, because when he’s on his phone, he’s not looking across the table at Richie, in his sea blue blazer.

It’s on silent, of course, but Bill, several wine glasses in already, is sort of leaning over his shoulder. And when a notification pops up, he notices.

Bill stage-gasps, and says, “Eddie! Grindr?!”

Eddie tries to burrow down into his seat.

Initially, he had been sort of working himself up to telling Richie how he felt. But, like counting to infinity, he’d feel like he’d made progress, and then the end goal would feel just as impossible to reach. So, he figured that maybe he needed to get any kind of experience flirting with men before he was able to get anywhere with Richie.

And then, The Ben Problem had arisen, and Eddie realised maybe he just needed to try to date men other than Richie, full stop.

“Nick,” Bill reads, leaning out of his seat to read Eddie’s phone. “He wants to know if you-oh. Ha. That’s a little personal.”

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie shoves his phone back into the depths of his bag. 

“Boyfriend?” Patty asks.

“ _No_ ,” Eddie says, going warm and trying not to make eye contact with Richie, or, in fact, anyone. “It’s not. It’s like a very. Very casual thing.”

“You’re blushing a lot for a casual thing,” Mike says.

“He’s blushing! Let the record show that he is blushing!”

Bill gets very annoying on his second champagne.

Richie, who has not made a joke in a disturbing amount of time, eventually pipes up. “Why have we not heard about this Nicholas, Edward? Does he come from a respectable family? Is he a doctor? Is there finery in the background of his dick pics?”

“Ohmygod the bouquet.” Bill says. “Eddie has to catch the bouquet. So he can marry Nick!”

“The day you write an acceptable ending will be the day I participate in a bouquet toss.”

“Everyone shut up,” Stan says. “They’re here.”

Bev walks down the aisle in a short, cream-coloured shift dress that looks simple in a way that probably means it’s expensive. Some of the kids present had been making daisy crowns earlier, and now Bev’s wearing one.

Ben’s wearing a suit that stretches very pleasantly along his shoulders.

“ _He’s_ not wearing a tie,” Richie says. “why the fuck did I have to wear a tie?”

“Oh, I’m sorry for making you look good,” Eddie bites back, before he realises what he’s said, and feels a deep, resigned, regret.

“Aw,” Richie says. “You tryna help me get off with one of Ben’s equally sculpted relatives? That’s so sweet of you, Spaghetti.”

Eddie eyes him coolly. “Hey, people get desperate at weddings. Maybe you have a shot.”

Richie’s smile dampens, and Eddie feels suddenly, horribly guilty.

“Richie,” he starts.

“Alright, alright, what about the Marsh side?” Richie says breezily. “I like a ginger.”

“Sure.” Eddie says, wondering how many massage appointments he’ll need to wring out the stress out of this wedding. “I heard a guy asking if you were Jeff Dunham. Maybe trade on that.”

“Shut. _Up._ ” Stan says. “You’re both so _loud_.”

Richie looks suitably sheepish. Eddie can’t say he doesn’t get it though. If Richie were up there, Eddie would probably want to distract himself too.

He doesn’t think they missed much of the ceremony, because Ben cries a little between each word.

Eddie looks over to Richie. Nudges his foot and gives him a sympathetic smile.

Richie gives him a confused and slightly strained smile in return. Eddie really needs to tell him he knows. It would clear a lot of stuff up.

_Time After Time_ rings in the first dance. Eddie finds it more spooky than romantic, the way it recounts their lives.

But he remembers, now. It’s not just a weird clown inside joke. It was playing at the little party they had in place of prom. At Richie’s house. Either Bev brought the music, or Richie put it on as a joke. Richie was going through a short-lived phase where he only admitted to listening to grunge, dancing or singing along to one-hit wonders when he could pass it off as comedy.

Bev had danced with Ben. Bill, several shots in, was flail-dancing with the sticky-hand-toys he called arms, while Mike helpfully removed fragile objects from his reach. Stan was occasionally bobbing his head to the music in a way that indicated he was having fun. Richie was sitting next to Eddie, pulling at his own sleeves like he had hives, and being uncharacteristically quiet the whole evening.

Eddie looks around. Bev, Ben, Bill and Mike are on the floor while Stan sits at the table, just the same.

Richie’s seat is empty.

“Where’s-”

“He went for a smoke,” says Stan, in a voice that lets you know exactly what he thinks of that.

Eddie stands up reflexively, then realises he’s leaving his friend alone at a table to go lecture a grown man about smoking.

“Um.” He hovers awkwardly. “Do you-”

“Go,” Stan says, rolling his eyes a little. “Make sure he’s not lost in a hedge maze somewhere.”

Richie, Eddie finds, hasn’t gone far. Just to the top of a little hill, where you can see the greenery stretch for miles.

He turns his head, surprised, when Eddie joins him.

He’s not actually smoking, so Eddie doesn’t have to admonish him. His eyes are definitely a little watery, though.

Eddie’s heart sinks. He wishes it was just on Richie’s behalf.

Several life experiences have taught Eddie that telling someone why they’re upset is not the ideal course of action. So, he asks what’s wrong.

“What, you don’t cry at weddings?” Richie asks, in a tone that suggests he expects nothing less.

Eddie eyes him skeptically. “I was with you when you won that Olive Garden lifetime pass. I know what your happy tears look like.”

Richie huffs a laugh.

Eddie moves closer, elbows brushing. “You know, being married isn’t all that,” Eddie says. “Kinda sucked, in my experience.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, smile quirking. “…Remind me why you _weren’t_ asked to make a speech?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Ok. Listen. I’m just saying, it’s ok if you’re a little…envious.”

From the way Richie’s eyes dart to him, Eddie feels a painful certainty that he’s hit on it.

He digs his fingers into his jeans.

“Um. People. People fall for people that aren’t right for them. It happens. But 6 months down the line, it’s not gonna matter. You’re gonna be with someone who likes your jokes, and can stand the fact that you’ve owned the same deodorant since ’92…and isn’t, y’know, married.”

He looks at Richie hopefully.

Richie looks almost dazed, eyes already fixed past Eddie, on some distant point. Every muscle tensed, except that his Adam’s apple bobs every few seconds. He looks much worse than he did when Eddie came out here. Eddie’s fucked this up massively and he’s not even sure _how_.

“Right.” Richie says eventually, voice clogged up. “Thanks for-I’m just gonna, uh.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, and stands up. “I need a minute.”

And with that, he walks off, arms hugging around himself on the way.

The drive home feels very long. Richie looks out the window. Eddie keeps asking if he’s angry at him.

Richie assures him he’s not, but by the third time Eddie asks, he’s definitely approaching irritated.

Eddie, “ _safety is paramount”_ Eddie, runs a red light twice, like he’s trying to provoke Richie into some kind of reaction.

Richie doesn’t understand _how_ , but it’s pretty clear Eddie thought this was a day-long kind of experience. That they’d be back to joking as usual within a day or two.

Richie really can’t muster up the energy.

He eats a 3 day-old sandwich from the fridge when he gets home, and goes straight to bed.

Eddie is making scrambled eggs the next morning. Richie sits down, expecting them to have a _conversation_. He doesn’t know a lot about roommate etiquette. But he had kind of assumed that after you call your roomie out for being in love with you, you move out.

But Eddie makes no mention of it. Instead, they make awkward conversation about the weather and the grocery shopping that needs to be done.

_Technically_ speaking, Richie could ask him to move out. A healthy, well-adjusted person would probably ask him. But it feels horribly perverse in so many ways.

_Look, I appreciate the fact that you risked your life to save me from being a vegetable in a demon clown’s lair for the rest of eternity, but then you made the mistake of not having sex with me. Pack your bags._

No one brings it up, and so Richie stops forcing himself to eat dinners and breakfasts with Eddie. Squirrels away in his room, using the excuse that he’s busy writing.

It’s too much, otherwise. Eddie is just _there_ , very aware that Richie is in love with him. And very aware that Richie is aware that he’s aware.

So he has this instead. Hiding in his own house.

On Friday night, he makes his excuses and ducks into his room with a bowl of the pasta Eddie made for dinner.

That’s when he realises his phone is still on the kitchen counter. He opens his door quietly, wondering if he can make this a secret op, when he sees Eddie’s sitting at the table with his head bowed. His plate untouched. His elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

“Eds?” he says, not really thinking beyond the spike of panic the sight gives him.

Eddie’s head bounces up with a smile that looks half-forced and half-real.

“Hey. You taking a break from writing?” he asks hopefully.

And Richie feels horribly, intensely guilty. He hadn’t really considered that not seeing Richie might be as hard for Eddie as seeing him is for Richie.

“Yeah,” he lies. “You up for a TV dinner?”

Eddie’s smile relaxes into something real.

“Sure.”

It’s a little stilted at first. But it’s like Eddie’s stacked up all the _Things he Wants to Tell Richie_ behind a dam wall, and as soon as Richie makes some offhand comment about wanting to buy the shirt Bea Arthur is wearing, the wall breaks. Suddenly he’s telling Richie that he has much less taste than Bea Arthur, and that somehow pistons off into an anecdote about a co-worker who asked if a paisley shirt made him look gay, “ _the fucking asshole”_ , and then he’s talking about the fact that they’re holding a retirement party for the “ _one fucking competent person”_ at his work, and can Richie just become a risk analyst if the comedy thing doesn’t work out?

It’s like Richie’s been wrapped in foil and chucked in the microwave. It hurts, it can’t be healthy, and there’s some sparking that seems dangerous. But he can’t deny that he’s defrosting. And he prefers that to being cold-numb.

So he watches Eddie’s whole face animate as he speaks, tip of his tongue darting out and eyebrows flying, and decides they’re gonna make this work.


End file.
